Working on a case for Stacy North would have probably been the last itemever on my agenda. Stacy had been my best friend and roommate incollege. My best friend, right up until the day she eloped with myfiance, Brad North. Although I came to realize later that it was all forthe best, such situations do tend to put a damper on a friendship.

Brad went on to become a personal injury attorney, one of Albuquerque'smost, shall we say, aggressive. They live in Tanoan, the newupscale community in town.

Now Stacy stood in my office with all the calm of a cat at the dogpound. She looked every bit of fifteen years older, a pity because itwas only eight years since the last time I'd seen her. She wore atailored linen dress the color of a fresh lemon, with black trim aroundthe neck and down the front. Gold buttons trailed along the trim,buttons that looked like they'd been custom made to match the earringsthat peeked demurely out of her soft blond hairstyle. A black ranch minkcontrasted strikingly with her hair and with the dress, creating anelegant picture of black and gold. For just a second, I wondered why Ifelt sorry for her.

It was something in the eyes. And in the mouth. Those eyes, which hadsparkled with clear blue fun in school. The mouth, always ready tolaugh. Stacy had been the practical joker, the whimsical elf among us.All traces of that were gone now. Dull blue eyes, rimmed by puffy lids,darted around the room nervously. Once dear skin was now covered withlayers of makeup to conceal the woman inside. Or perhaps to present animage, the image of a woman someone else wanted Stacy to be.

"Charlie, I need your help." The voice was low and cultured, and it onlybroke slightly on the last word.

A rush of ambivalent feelings flooded through me. I'd spent ten yearsmaking myself not care about Stacy, and I wasn't sure I wanted to startagain now. She and Brad had hurt me - deeply. My first instinct was totoss her out of my office. The desperation in her eyes pulled me back,though.

"Sit down and tell me about it," I offered grudgingly. I gestured towardthe room at large, giving her the choice of taking the side chair besidemy desk or the sofa on the opposite wall. She chose the sofa.

She perched on the edge of the cushion making little adjustments to herskirt and coat before speaking.

"A valuable item has, ah, been lost. I have to recover it."

"I'm an accountant, Stacy. Unless it's your tax return we're talkingabout, I think you should be telling this to Ron. He's the investigatoraround here. I can have him call you when he gets back to town nextweek." My brother, Ron, and I are partners in RJP Investigations.Although I watch the cases that come through the door pretty closely, Iprefer to stay with the accounting and let Ron do the dirty work.

"Oh, no. I can't wait until next week." Her eyes had grown wide, herbreathing rapid. "I have to get this item back before tomorrow night."

"What's the item, and why the urgency?"

She squirmed in her seat a minute before answering. "My Rolex watch,"she said.

"Was it lost or stolen?"

"Lost. No, I think it was stolen... Um, well, I'm not really sure.

"Couldn't it have been misplaced around the house somewhere?"

"No. It's not around the house somewhere." Her voice was firm, but hereyes wouldn't meet mine.

"Where did you last see it?"

"Umm... I'd really rather not say."

"Stacy!" I was losing patience fast. "How do expect us to find it? Giveme some help here."

She stared at her hands, suddenly finding a cuticle that neededattention. I got up and closed the door softly. Pulling the side chairaround to face her, I sat with my hands between my knees and waited.When she looked up, her eyes were moist.

"I first noticed it missing from the house." She gazed out the window asshe spoke. "Someone must have broken in and stolen it."

"Did you report it to the police? To your insurance company?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

Her eyes touched mine for the briefest second, darted to the bookshelf,then the far wall. I waited.

"I don't want Brad to know. He already thinks I'm careless. I can't lethim know I've lost the watch. It was a Valentine gift. I've only had ittwo weeks."

"Stacy, to put it bluntly, that's bullshit. How can Brad blame you?" Iwaited another long minute while she fidgeted some more.

"Well, um, it wasn't exactly a burglary," she said finally. "A man hadbeen there that day, uh, doing some work. I think he must have picked upthe watch from my dresser."

"Did you report this to the company he worked for?"

"No."

"Why not!" I felt like shaking her.

She pulled the edges of the mink together, retreating like a turtle intoits shell. I reached out, laying one hand on her fur-clad knee.

"Stacy, come on. We used to be able to talk about anything." Before sheand Brad eloped right under my nose. I realized I was feelingsympathetic toward her and pulled my hand back. I wasn't at all sure Iwanted to rebuild a friendship with her at this point. However, her fearwas evident. "I can't help you if I don't know the whole situation," Ifinally said.

I could almost hear her thoughts churning. After she sifted through theentire thing, I wondered what little sprinkling she'd give me. Sheworked again at the errant cuticle for a couple of minutes.

"The man's name is Gary Detweiller. He wasn't at the house doing work."

This time her eyes met mine firmly. I felt my mouth open, but it dosedagain.

"Can you help me, Charlie?"

"Brad's coming home tomorrow night, and you need to be wearing thewatch, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Stacy, can I be blunt? Why would you want to tell anyone else aboutthis? I mean, you obviously have plenty of money. Why didn't you just goout and buy another watch?"

She gave a short humorless chuckle. "For one, I don't personally haveany money. I get a hundred dollars a month cash spending money.Over several years I've been able to stash away a little. Everythingelse is in joint accounts, which Brad monitors like a hawk. The clothes,the furs, the jewelry he bestows them like rewards. Secondly, the watchwas half of a matching pair. Brad bought himself one at the same time,and he made a big point of telling me how they matched exactly, down tothe color of the watch face and the size of the little dots thatindicate the hours. I've only worn the thing two weeks. What if I pickedout a new one, and some little detail was off? He'd know in aninstant."

What a mess.

"What can I do, Charlie?"

"You want to hire a private investigator to find the watch. Right?"

She nodded. I sucked on my lower lip.

"Like I said, Ron's gone until next week. Could you tell Brad you tookthe watch in for cleaning?"

"It's only two weeks old," she sensibly pointed out.

"Repairs?"

"Maybe, if I had to. I'm just worried that he might call the jeweler tofind out what the problem is."

This poor woman really did live under the gun.

"Let me see what I can do," I said, wishing I'd gone out of town, too."Can you tell me anything about this Detweiller? Confidentially."

"Not much. I met him at the club. He flirted, talked me into letting himcome over for a drink."

"He's a member of the country club? Does Brad know him?"

"I don't think so. I'd never seen him there before last week."

I wanted to ask whether having a drink was all they'd done, but didn'tfigure it was any of my business. I did ask for a five hundred dollarretainer, though. She could explain it at home any way she wanted.

Stacy left a few minutes later, the worry lines around her mouth onlyslightly less pronounced than when she'd walked in here. I picked up thephone book and looked up Gary Detweiller. There was only one listed. Theaddress was in a low-to-middle income area, a place I didn't imagineproduced many Tanoan Country Club members. I decided to take a driveover there.

Outside, the weather was nearly balmy - bright blue sky, temperaturenear sixty. Spring is an unpredictable time here. Tomorrow could verywell be thirty degrees with wind, rain or sleet. In the car, I shed myjacket, debating the quickest route to Gary Detweiller's neighborhood.

Albuquerque has become a sprawling city, thirty miles in diameter,something the Spanish conquistadors probably never imagined back in the1500s. Early city planners divided the town into quadrants - northvalley, south valley, northeast heights and southeast heights, as theyare commonly called today. As the population approaches the half-millionmark, the outlying towns - Tijeras and Cedar Crest to the east,Bernalillo to the north, Rio Rancho on the west side, and Belen and LosLunas toward the south - have become suburbs with thousands of dailycommuters. Very few of us ride horses, wear spurs, or carry pistols on adaily basis. We do speak English and we consider New Mexico one of thefifty states, although it seems outsiders have to pause to remember thissometimes.

I left the peacefulness of our semi-residential, semi-commercial officeneighborhood and joined the flow of traffic on Central Avenue. Opting tobypass downtown, I cut over to Lomas and headed east. The SandiaMountains stood out in high relief on this clear day, like a guardiansentinel protecting the city from the ravages of the eastern plains.

Detweiller's address was in a quiet residential neighborhood betweenLomas and Central that had boomed in the late fifties. Some of theplaces were occupied by their original owners while others had been soldand resold and converted to rentals. The condition of each house andfront yard generally indicated which were which.

Detweiller's house was a stucco box placed in the middle of a grayriver-rocked square of land wedged between two other similar squares ofland. This one had benefit of a few shrubs. Jumpers that looked likethey hadn't been trimmed in a dozen years lined the empty driveway.Scraggly pyracantha flanked the front porch. Two windows faced thestreet, each curtained in a different color. Brown paint peeled off thefront door and two newspapers lay on the step. The whole place exudedemptiness. I pressed the bell anyway and was almost glad when no oneanswered.

If Gary Detweiller had stolen a Rolex watch yesterday, he'd obviouslyused the proceeds to go elsewhere. I pictured a quick sale at a pawnshop, with the next stop Vegas.

I wasn't far off the mark. Detweiller's house was two blocks off CentralAvenue, the famed old Route 66, which used to be the main drag throughAlbuquerque. Now it's lined with seedy motels, mobile home dealers, andplenty of pawn shops. I started with the closest one. The third stopyielded the Rolex, easily identified by the serial number Stacy hadgiven me. I choked a little at the price I had to pay to get it back,but figured Stacy would find a way to come up with it.

When I called her scarcely two hours after our first meeting, she wasastounded. We met, exchanged watch for money (she gave me an inch-highstack of tens and twenties), and that should have been the end of it.

In fact, I'm sure that would have been the end of it, had it not beenfor the news item three days later announcing that Gary Detweiller hadbeen murdered.

Excerpted from Deadly Gamble by Connie Shelton. Copyright © 1995 by Connie Shelton. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 1995 Connie Shelton.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9643161-0-2